


something wretched about this, something so precious about this

by pinkcupboardwitch



Category: Shades of Magic - V. E. Schwab
Genre: Childhood, Drugs, Gen, Prequel, off-screen violence, sibling bonds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-16 03:56:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21264674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkcupboardwitch/pseuds/pinkcupboardwitch
Summary: Athos Dane may be king someday, but today he is only a boy who loves his sister.And scrapes together a living as a pint-sized bouncer for a drug den who sells human teeth on the side. That too.





	something wretched about this, something so precious about this

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lavenderbushes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderbushes/gifts).

> For the anonymous Tumblr prompt "silence - a fable: dreams, symbols, nightmares with Athos"

He is eleven, sneaking under tables at the _sho_ den and scraping bits of the dregs off. Poor stuff: the grade they sell here was never of high quality to start with. But rolled into a ball the size of his thumbnail, these dregs can still be sold to the most desperate, the ones who can’t even afford to come inside. The proprietor could have sold them himself, but there are some things more easily bought from children. Those streetside desperates buy and believe they are doing the big-eyed twins a favor, their pride intact, and so they come back sooner. The twins nod solemnly and then trundle back inside to their hefty cut and the garret nest where they sleep wrapped together.

The proprietor had once suggested a much, much smaller cut. In fact, he had suggested they turn all their money over to him and he would let them sleep in the kitchen ashes after they did the dishes and sweeping up. Then Astrid had bitten his calf clean through the boot leather and Athos had sunk a fork into his hand.

“I must talk to my cobbler about the grade of leather he sells,” the man had said, examining the punctures in his boot. “In the meantime, would you like to be paid to bite other people for me?”

Athos had looked at Astrid, picking leather out of her teeth. She had looked back at him. Then they sat down, feet swinging well above the floor, and commenced to haggle.

It’s a cushy job, as London jobs go. Half a year ago they had been sleeping in doorways. The Sparrow still keeps an adult bouncer, but the twins have carved out a very nice niche for themselves as eminently reasonable assistants.

Once, when one of the gangs had tried to break in, Astrid had poured lantern oil over all of them from the rooftop and Athos had thrown a torch. Their partner had been pleased. He even let them get first pick of the buttons and bone left in the ashes afterwards to sell or save for spellcraft. The meat was mostly too charred for eating, but the twins still scrounged enough to keep them in snacks for a week.

Once they are big enough to set up shop on their own, if they and he live long enough, they will kill or bind him and take over this operation. The twins have been measuring each other’s heights against a post and cutting notches to try to make themselves grow faster. But for now, they’re willing enough to be partners.

_Sho _is a valuable drug, after all. It offers escape, and escape of any sort is rare in this city. For that alone, many are willing to risk addiction or being devoured alive by waking nightmares. But more than that, if you have the gift, you might see more than symbols and smoke. You see true things.

Athos rolls out from under the table to squint at the ball of _sho_ -of _money_, of _power_, of _vision_ \- between finger and thumb. Still a bit more. He has been borrowing scrapings here and there to hide under a slat in the roof while he figures out how to refine it. Without his borrowings they’d be making more money, but money can’t buy you knowledge in your muscles and your mind.

He moves on to the next person. He doesn’t fear anyone ambushing him from behind for it, skinny boy though he is. Astrid is sitting in the rafters. He’s heard the soft rustle of her following him around the room, keeping an eye on the den in general and him in particular. Astrid doesn’t like to be among people much. But she really likes jumping down onto the heads of people who try to attack her brother and then ramming her knife into an ear or an eye.

Nothing to be found here. Crowfuck. He kicks aside the dozing _nil_, genderless one, crossly because he can and moves onto the next pallet. A woman, dark-haired, with the heart-shaped face and smooth cheeks the ballads always praise. Her heavy curls hang in strings across her face. She mumbles as he rolls her over to pat her down for anything useful or shiny.

“Holl,” she whispers. “Holl, Alox...oh my babies...”

There’s dregs enough left in the bottom of her pipe to make Athos smile happily as he packs them into his ball. She must have dozed off before she could finish. It can’t be long for her. He sniffs at her breath. Someone as riddled with drugs as this one can’t be eaten safely, but he knows plenty of street magicians who will pay for fresh hair and teeth. Old Tietjen on Harrow Way even lets him poke through his own stores sometimes.

Crowfuck. Sourness. Despair, anguish, crushing misery. His heart may break. The woman’s breath doesn’t have the whiff that presages death. Their partner doesn’t like anyone to be harvested who might be a repeat customer. Disappointed, Athos sits back on his haunches.

“Come again soon, dearie,” he mimics in a singsong under his breath.

“Alox,” she breathes again.

Wait. There?

Athos stoops, pawing through her hair a moment, crushing an errant flea absently. Then he sits back in triumph. A cheap glass charm, edged with tin, etched with a crude leaf, to be worn in the hair or as an earring. Between the leaf’s spokes are even tinier letters: H, V, but it’s the A that Athos seizes on.

“Astrid! Tsh!” he calls in a piercing whisper.

His sister pokes her head over the edge of the rafter. He tosses the charm up at her; she catches instinctively.

“It’s got your name on it!” Athos calls in the same whisper-shout. “A for Astrid!”

Her pointed face lights up. “Where’s yours?” she whisper-shouts back.

“There’s only one! We can share! You first.”

He’s biting his lip and almost stamping his feet in excitement. Her own face is scarcely less radiant. First she spits on the charm and rubs vigorously to make it shine, then twitches her braid over her shoulder and hooks it in. She looks back down at him, dimples showing in her cheeks.

“Do I look like a princess?”

“You look like a queen!”

Now she’s turning red _and_ dimpling. Athos grins delightedly. Screw Tietjen. Screw his stores. He can always break in to see them anyway while the old man is sleeping.

Chestnuts, he decides. Soon as they have enough money, he’s going to take Astrid out for chestnuts. And if anyone tries to take her pretty charm from her, he’ll cut out their eyes and give them to her for a present.

For once well content with himself, Athos steps over the mumbling woman and continues on his rounds. In the dim murk of a Kosik _sho_ den, a miserable quarter in a miserable city, he begins to whistle.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Hozier's "From Eden."


End file.
